Odalisque Page 2

  “Why do you think he looks at that stone carving each time he passes this way?” asked one woman, expertly kneading the dough into mounds between both hands.

  “That carving is Iridor, isn’t it, and the Spur’s been doing that for years,” came the reply over the sizzle of flattened rolls of dough frying in melted butter. “Keep fanning those flames now,” the woman urged a young lad who sat between her legs, ensuring that the smoldering lumps of knotwood never lost their heat.

  “I know that.” The first sister raised her eyebrows in mock exasperation. “I’m asking you what you think he sees in it.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Mara. Perhaps he casts a silent prayer to it. Now that I come to think on it, I’m sure that owl has something to do with the old stories of the Goddess.”

  “Hoosh,” said a man bustling in from behind. “You know not to speak her name.”

  “No one can hear us back here, Bal. And it’s only an old myth. No one believes in all that Goddess stuff anymore. You go about your business, man, and let us get on with ours. There’s a lot of customers queuing.”

  “And you stop flapping your gums, woman, and keep frying up those rathas.”

  “Oh, be gone,” Mara said, shooing her husband back to the front of the shop. “You could be right, Hasha.” She returned to her chore, the dough piling up in a neat, glistening pyramid. “The Spur’s such a secretive sort, perhaps he’s atoning for something.”

  “I’ll show him atonement.” Her sister rubbed her breasts and grinned wickedly. The look of disapproval on Mara’s face made Hasha laugh out loud. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought it at least once? Every woman in Percheron daydreams of a roll with the Spur.” Though the child below remained silent, his soft smile of enjoyment at the women’s banter suggested this was not the first time his mother and aunt had discussed this man and would surely not be the last. The Spur of Percheron prompted more conjecture than any other; the man with the curiously light-colored eyes was not just every woman’s dream but was spoken of admiringly by the men too.

  “I haven’t,” Mara lied, and stifled her laughter. “Oh, but if I were younger, I would.”

  Hasha flipped the four oiled pancakes currently in the pan and a delicious new aroma of cooked ratha spiced the air. “He always looks so serious, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh.”

  Mara stopped kneading the dough. “Oh, he’s got secrets, that one, but he never seems to put a foot wrong. I’m told the Zar holds him in higher esteem than any of his council and his men in the protectorate would die for him. That sort of loyalty isn’t won easily.”

  Her sister looked up and exclaimed, “Zarab save us, Mara, he’s coming this way!”

  Both sisters watched in genuine pleasure as the familiar long stride of the Spur brought him to the door of the shop and the chance to serve the highest-ranking soldier in the land became reality.

  AS HE ENTERED the shop, Lazar was planning to order a dish known tantalizingly as the Feast of Seven Spices. Had he known what was to come that day, he might have found good reason to ignore the hunger pangs that made him so accessible to the Elim runner sent from the palace with such dire news.

  As it was, ignorant of what was coming, Lazar sat down at a small table, smiling politely at the two middle-aged ladies who giggled coquettishly behind their veils from the kitchen, as if being visited by Zarab himself.

  2

  It was going to be unpleasant, she thought, tapping perfectly rouged lips with the tips of manicured nails that had been buffed by a slave until they shone. But it had to be done…and swiftly.

  The First Wife and Absolute Favorite glanced down into the exquisite private garden where boys played among the cypresses with a ball made from an inflated pig’s bladder. Their laughter prompted a smile, but anyone looking at this woman would have sensed no warmth. Herezah was already imagining how different those childish squeals would be when the order was given.

  An agonized groan dragged her from her thoughts. Taking a moment to settle an appropriate look of sorrow on her face, Herezah turned from the beautifully sculpted window of the Stone Palace to the bed where Zar Joreb, Percheron’s high ruler, King of the Seas, Ruler of the Deserts, Mightiest of the Mighty, lay dying. The man had been treated as a god these past thirty years. But even gods have to die, Herezah thought with fierce joy as she flicked a glance of summons to a slightly stooped man standing nearby.

  Tariq spoke softly from behind the oiled beard carefully split into two narrow plaits and ostentatiously hung with a ruby at each end. These audacious accessories spoke much to Herezah about Tariq’s designs for personal aggrandizement. She knew he wanted the title of Grand Vizier and she was sure he had never felt himself closer to his goal than now. That was good. He was well connected; she would feed his ambition, make him her puppet.

  He kept his voice low enough for her ears only. “My lady Herezah?”

  “Fetch Boaz,” she whispered. The Vizier understood, bowing and withdrawing silently.

  Herezah looked around the fabulously ornate chamber, gilded recklessly with gold at every turn. The room, already crowded, would get only more thick with people as the day drew on, for her husband would most likely die, if not this hour then within the next few.

  Joreb had very particular tastes in art, which thankfully his Absolute Favorite shared, although in truth he had given her that appreciation, guiding her since childhood as to what constituted beauty. And it was certainly not this gold-laden room with its rich, gaudy colors. No, Joreb liked subtlety and understatement; his preference was for paler hues and simpler design. Herezah felt a fleeting pang that the man who had given her the opportunity to rise out of the slush of the harem would give up his soul in a room as vulgar as this. Her regret passed quickly, however, replaced by the thrill of knowing that her ultimate goal, the one she had been striving toward these past two decades, would be achieved in merely hours.

  She calmed her racing pulse and tried to focus. Despite her anticipation at what her husband’s death meant for her, Herezah had been shocked to learn that his injuries were, in fact, fatal, and she had made every effort to make him as comfortable as possible.

  The large chamber they were in might be vulgar but it was cooled by a gentle breeze blowing from the massive, semicircular aquamarine harbor the famed city of Percheron overlooked. It was here that for thousands of years cultures had collided and mingled to yield the Percheron of today. Its strategic position and seemingly endless reserves of precious stones and metals gave the city riches beyond most realms’ dreams.

  But while those elements had once given Percheron such power, they were now its greatest threat. Herezah—keenly in tune with national security—was well aware that Joreb had begun fretting about Galinsea in particular. He had disclosed to her his concerns that their warlike neighbor to the west had designs on Percheron.

  Herezah’s wandering attention was arrested by the worried expressions of the court’s two most senior physicians. The Zar would not see sunset, that much was obvious, and in turn their lives were forfeit for failing His Majesty. Understandably they continued to consult each other, desperately considering new, and hopeless, strategies.

  At the foot of the Zar’s bed cavorted a dwarf, sumptuously outfitted but looking ridiculous all the same. Herezah quelled a scowl. The fool was a constant annoyance in her life. He was “closed” too, which only served to irritate Herezah further. Not even a blood-telling by her crone, Yozem, had revealed anything about him. The Practitioner of the Blood Arts had termed him a blank, claiming the dwarf offered no clues about himself, thereby accounting for his madness. Herezah felt sickened to see the awkward antics he performed on his thick, short legs.

  If Percheron was credited as being the most idyllic cove in the Faranel Sea, then its Stone Palace was the most breathtaking aspect of that cove. And within that Stone Palace its harem was the magnificent prize where beauty ruled supreme. It disturbed Herezah constantly that such vulgar deformi
ty as this dwarf roamed among the beauty. He was the flaw in Percheron’s jewel. Pez—she wasn’t even sure whether this was his real name—had been a favorite clown of the Zar’s for too many years for Herezah to get rid of him. She despaired that her son adored Pez in equal measure to her hatred.

  She sighed; at least the palace buffoon, with his strange yellow eyes, would keep Boaz amused during the difficult times ahead. He might even prove a blessing, for there were occasions when time spent with Pez seemed to help her only child emotionally. Boaz was intense, often too serious, but the dwarf made him laugh with his ramblings. She couldn’t imagine how. The dwarf could hardly string together a single sensible sentence without breaking into song, or acrobatics, or without his mind wandering elsewhere. How Boaz and Pez managed to hold even a simple conversation was a mystery to her.

  A small movement at the corner of the room distracted her. She glanced over at the silent mountain of black flesh that went by the name of Salmeo. He put the fear of a thousand angry gods into most people around the palace, including herself. She had lost count of the times the giant man had reduced her to a shaking wreck. But never again, she promised, now that absolute power was within her grasp.

  Salmeo was the cleverest, most sly man she had ever known—no doubt ever would know. He was as cunning as he was dangerous. He was also cruelty personified…but then you didn’t become Grand Master of the Eunuchs without taking a perverse pleasure in punishment.

  Salmeo embodied so many unpalatable characteristics, it was hard to imagine how they all came together in one person. For the umpteenth time her amazement was triggered by the sheer size of him beneath the richly patterned garments he draped over his folds of loose, flabby skin. Heavy folds, she knew all too well from her own experience, that had to be lifted away in order for him to be cleaned. He matched his revolting looks with a vicious demeanor more befitting a scorned woman than a grown man. Which wasn’t far from the truth, perhaps. Salmeo had been cut at the age of seven, when his height and size fooled the Grand Master Eunuch of the day into believing he was older. He was an “almost complete”: nothing much was left of his manhood save the painful yearning of desire. No toys, no tricks, no magicks helped ease Salmeo with his frustrations, so he took his pleasures in other ways.

  Herezah’s gaze was helplessly drawn toward the sinister, sharply pointed nail on the index finger of his right hand. He stained it red, so no woman could ever forget its purpose and no naive boy went beyond wondering at its use. She masked the shudder of the memory of that nail’s cruel touch.

  Salmeo must have sensed her attention and she just had time, before hurriedly looking away, to see the pale rope of the scar that ran the length of one of his fleshy cheeks pull as he raised an eyebrow at her interest.

  As she turned away, Herezah’s focus finally fell upon the Zar himself. He groaned and moved restlessly beneath silken sheets, fighting the unseen spirits who had come to claim him.

  Death is ugly indeed, Herezah thought, watching the great one’s lips draw back in a silent howl as a fresh wave of punishment rode his body. The door opened and to her relief she saw Vizier Tariq usher in her son.

  “My lion,” she said softly to the boy, reaching out her arms theatrically.

  “Mother.” He dutifully kissed her cheek but twisted away from the embrace.

  Herezah did not outwardly react to his rejection but she promised herself that she would try harder with Boaz. After all, within hours she would be his regent, quietly ruling from behind the figurehead Zar of so few summers. She saw his intelligent dark eyes observing her and felt a momentary loss of composure, as if he understood precisely what she had been thinking. Before she could correct her expression, his gaze slid away to his father, moaning on the bed.

  “You must be brave, Boaz,” Herezah warned. “He will not last long.”

  “Can we not stop his pain?” he asked tersely, ignoring her concern.

  “The physicians minimize it,” Tariq offered, eager to include himself in the royal conversation.

  Boaz ignored the sycophantic Vizier as well. It was shock enough for him to see his father in this state—especially as he had seemed to rally in the early days of the fall—but having his mother displaying her newfound devotion and feeling his emotions used as some sort of circus ground for everyone else’s benefit was making him angry.

  “Come, my son,” Herezah said, taking his hand. “You are fifteen now and old enough to witness your father’s final breaths.”

  Final breaths? Boaz scowled. He could hear the predatory tone in his mother’s voice. He knew only too well what his father’s death meant—his mother had comforted him to sleep when he was a young child with stories about how one day the two of them would rule Percheron. When he was small he had trusted and adored his mother, but for the past six or seven years she had essentially ignored him and he had been raised by royal servants, learning to live without the maternal love he craved. Now it amused him that both his parents doted on him: his mother because of the power he would bring her, and his father because he recognized in Boaz a future leader. Boaz knew the Zar loved his sharp mind, his scholarly pursuits and love of the arts, and it didn’t hurt that he was described as handsome these days either—he could see how all of these attributes made him a most eligible heir. Nevertheless, it was sickening to watch his mother reveling in this same knowledge and using it to get precisely what she wanted, not for his benefit, but for hers.

  Yet she was his only ally—not friend, not loved one, but someone he could count on to look after his interests because they served hers so well. It was a terrible thing to admit but he needed Herezah and her bright, agile mind, which could plot and plan faster and more skillfully than anyone’s he knew.

  Accepting this only made him angrier still, but these dark thoughts were put on hold as Pez scampered up. Boaz smiled inwardly at the dwarf ’s oversize pantaloons, which, because they had insufficient length to billow properly, pooled comically around his thick ankles. Nevertheless, the swath of fabric hid the savage bow of his legs that made Pez sway so oddly. He arrived pulling silk squares from his nose. It was a trick that had always amused Boaz, but not today.

  “Hello, Pez,” Boaz muttered.

  “Master,” Pez replied.

  The boy looked sadly at the dwarf. “Is he truly dying?” he said, as if, by asking his friend rather than those he disliked, the reality might be different.

  “We all die,” Pez replied in a singsong voice. “You, birds, fish, me…your parents too.” Herezah glared at the dwarf as Pez’s gaze slid past her in a deliberate provocation. “You must carry yourself proudly now, young prince. Do you know why?”

  Boaz looked at his friend—the only one he trusted in this room—and nodded. “Because I’m to be Zar.”

  “That’s right, my darling,” Herezah gushed, clearly surprised that the dwarf was making sense. “Your father awaits,” she urged, pulling Boaz away from the jester.

  The young man glanced at Pez, who blinked slowly in that curious manner of his. Then the dwarf bowed theatrically, the bells on his velvet cap tinkling into strained silence, for the groaning had just subsided.

  Aware that all eyes in the room were trained upon him, Boaz took his father’s hand. It felt dry, too cold, as if death had indeed arrived, although a sudden rasping groan put an end to that fright. Through puffy eyes, the King of Kings tried to focus.

  “My lord.” Herezah spoke lovingly near the Zar’s ear. “Our son, Boaz.”

  The man rallied ever so slightly, a brief smile immediately replaced by another grimace. “Boaz.”

  “Father, I—”

  “Hush. Listen now,” the Zar growled, though it took all his effort to endow his weak voice with the tone needed to make the youngster pay attention. “You are the Chosen One. No one else! You alone. Never forget it!” He gasped desperately, tried to take one last struggling breath, and failed. The stricken physicians watched as the head of the Zar lolled to one side; a trail of spittle escap
ed, running down his chin. Herezah looked away in feigned despair, the action hiding her triumph. The men of medicine hung their heads, imagining what their own last words would be that evening when their throats were cut. No point in fighting it now. Their wills were written and they knew their families would be well looked after. They had enjoyed position and wealth for many years and had always understood that when Joreb died, they would too.

  They went about their final duty now, one checking that no pulse was present while the other held a small mirror against the Zar’s mouth and nose. As a final precaution, the first man drew a long pin from a pouch and pricked the Zar’s body repeatedly. Herezah was busy removing the large ring from her husband’s finger. Boaz, his eyes stinging with tears, turned his head away.

  Pez, sensing the boy’s distress, suddenly sank to his knees before him. As if the dwarf ’s sudden movement was a signal, everyone in the chamber also dropped. They bent to touch their heads on the floor before Boaz, the son of their Zar’s Absolute Favorite and his chosen successor. Salmeo took longer than anyone to kneel, but after much grunting he too paid the new Zar appropriate homage.

  Boaz froze, stunned; he wasn’t ready to accept this new role, even though he had been groomed for many years to take his father’s crown. If not for the sly wink that Pez gave him from under a short arm, he might have fled the chamber.

  “Your Majesty,” Herezah cried, and Salmeo, Tariq, the physicians, and even the servants attending took up the chant. “Hail the Zar!” They repeated this several times until the new King of Kings commanded them to stop.

  Into the instant silence that followed, Pez broke wind, his rear pointing suspiciously toward the new Valide Zara and her bejeweled Vizier. Boaz knew this sort of lewd behavior should have made his father sit up from death and roar with laughter. Joreb had so loved Pez’s wickedness. Boaz felt a nervous flutter of amusement threaten to explode from his own throat but he controlled it with effort and focused on his scowling, clearly offended parent. He ignored the mortified Vizier, who, in his opinion, deserved all the bad smells that came his way.